


Slow Down

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Date Night, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's date night and Sam won't let you rush things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Down

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.

The blazer, button-down, and pressed slacks are a surprise. A bemused smile pulls at your lips. It’s date night, sure, but you thought at this point that you were past dressing to impress.

You thought you were past the little gifts, too, but he’s got a small white bag from your favorite bakery, anyway.

“You look nice.”

He rests a hand on the dip of your waist and leans in to kiss you lightly. “We’ve got dinner reservations at seven.” He steps back, looking you over, and he shakes his head. “I don’t think they’ll let you in like that.”

You glance down at the bright pink shorts and the loose white t-shirt–one of his, left behind when he bolted early one Sunday morning a few weeks back. You’re comfortable. You’d assumed he’d come over and that would be the end of being dressed.

“I didn’t know we were going to dinner.”

His eyebrows go up. “Why wouldn’t we go to dinner?” He steps past you, into the entry.

You shut the door behind him, locking it without thought, and turn to start for your bedroom. “You don’t have to impress me anymore, you know. I’m going to have sex with you.”

“No offense,” he says, “but I’m a hell of a lot more scared of my mama coming back from the grave to twist my ear than I am of your gun, so we’re keeping the dinner reservations, Officer. I’m going to go put this down.” He’s already starting for the kitchen.

You laugh, picturing his mother as you’ve seen her in the photo on his bookcase. “I stopped at the A&P on the way home. There’s beer if you want one.”

“Thanks.”

In your bedroom, you strip out of the shorts and t-shirt, glad you don’t have to change your panties and bra–you’re comfortable enough to let him see you in pajamas and maybe even sweats, but you’ll be damned if he gets to see period panties and sports bras yet–and slip into a little black dress. A pair of low heels, pearls for your ears, and your hair up in a French twist and you’re almost ready. It takes all of three minutes.

You meet him in the living room, where he’s standing at the radiator looking out the window, one hand in his pocket and a beer in the other hand. He turns when you move close and he gives you a wide smile.

“Much better.”

“Glad you approve.” You turn, presenting the unzipped back of your dress. You could have left it sealed and pulled it over your head; this is better. “Zip me, please.”

He sets the beer on the window sill and obliges, his warm knuckles skimming up your spine as he zips the dress. His hands smooth over your shoulders and he ducks his head to kiss the back of your neck. When you step away to shrug into a cardigan, he’s still smiling.

“Thank you.”

“Looking forward to helping you out of it later.” He offers his hand. “Dinner, a walk in the park, and drinks on the way home?”

His fingers are warm and his palm is dry and you want his hands all over you. “I’m still a sure thing.”

“No woman is ever a sure thing.” He lifts your hand to his lips to brush a kiss over your knuckles. His eyes twinkle. “I like to earn it.”

***

If it weren’t for the badge and holdout pistol weighing down your purse, you’d drag him into one of the dank, smelly alleys, push him up against the brick, and kiss that smile right off of his handsome face. As it is, you’re not so far gone you forget your role as public servant, but you’ve had just enough to drink to feel warm and loose, to let yourself sway into him with each step. The number the band was playing as you left meanders around in your brain and makes you want to hum. His fingers are linked with yours and while he’s nowhere nearer to drunk than you are, he certainly seems to have his own buzz going.

When you stop on the corner to wait for the light to change, he touches the curve of your cheek and kisses you.

“I had fun tonight,” bubbles out of you as he pulls away.

The light is green and he tugs you off the curb and across the street. “I know you did.”

“I  _always_  have a good time with you.”

“That’s the idea.”

It’s a little frustrating, the need to tell him and the desire not to make a big deal out of it, so you press your lips together and focus on his hand in yours as you make your way with him through the darkened streets, to your building, to the safety and familiarity of your apartment.

Work in the 28th is dangerous. You were shot at twice this week. And you think that conspicuously-buff social worker Sam Wilson has dangerous work of his own, dangerous work that is at the same time similar to and totally different from yours. There’s the matter of the birds, for example. Always the birds, circling and perching and squawking at him. You think he’s the only person in all of New York who doesn’t look at pigeons like the disease-addled flying rats they really are. You have your suspicions, but you’re content to let the man have his secrets–he checked out when you ran his information, even if there were some gaps in his history, and that’s good enough. So it’s nice to have this. To feel like someone cares. It could be love, but it doesn’t have to be. He takes you to dinner and asks about your day and he buys you drinks, and even when people are looking he holds your hand and kisses you and smiles at you.

It’s more than you hoped for. It’s more than your mother said you’d ever get when you told her about the Army and then about the NYPD. For a long time, you thought she was right. It feels good to prove her wrong, even if you’d never tell her about any of it.

In your hallway, you curl your hands in the lapels of his blazer. You back up against your door and you pull him close. There’s a flash of his smile before his mouth is on yours, slow and warm, beer-flavored. The press of his lips and the length of his body along yours as he pins you against the door warms you.

“We’re gonna give your old lady neighbor a heart attack if we don’t go inside,” he says when he breaks the kiss.

You lick at his lips before you release his lapels and fish your door key out of your purse. “She’s in bed.” You start to turn. He gives you just enough space to unlock the door.

He rests a hand on your waist and kisses the side of your neck. His body is a long hot line against yours.

Together, you fall into your entryway. He shuts the door with a foot and locks it with one hand, the other arm still around you. You kick off your shoes and drop your purse. You part long enough for you to peel off your cardigan, for him to shrug out of his blazer, and then his hand is around yours again and you’re leading him through the living room, headed for the bedroom. Every nerve ending is alive with the anticipation. You’ve been waiting for this for weeks–since the last time your schedules allowed it. But he redirects you and the next thing you know, both of you are on the couch. You’re straddling his lap, knees buried in the cushions, and he’s sliding his hands from your knees to your hips, but he’s not pushing the dress up.

“Sam,” you say, and you’re grown enough to admit that you’re whining a little. If you’re a fire, he’s kept you smoldering all night with touches, with kisses, with those long dark looks that cut straight through you.

He palms your hips. “You’re always in such a hurry, girl. We got time.”

You huff. His use of ‘girl’ shouldn’t send that secret jolt of pleasure through you, but it does. “I know that. I don’t want to wait.”

“Waiting’s nice sometimes,” he says, voice a low rumble. He runs his hands up your sides and slides them across your back. He pulls you closer. “I’m not going anywhere. Slow down.”

You don’t bother trying to respond. The heat of him, the hard planes of his chest, the broad strokes of his hands–you don’t have the words. He runs his hands up and down your back and kisses your cheek. His arms go around you, tight but not constricting, and he hugs you, pressing his cheek to yours. He smells like fresh air and aftershave. For a rare, precious moment you feel safe. Then he’s kissing your jaw and he’s working the pins out of the French twist and you forget about  _safe_  in favor of  _need_. Your hair spills over his hand when his lips touch yours.

It’s easy to lose yourself in the kiss, in the shape and feel and flavor of his lips, in the gentle and determined way he presses in. You frame his face, your fingers along his cheeks and your thumbs along his jaw. Stubble barely catches your skin; he shaved before he came to pick you up. His tongue slips over your lower lip and his hands slide down your back until he can hold your hips in his big hands. His tongue dips into your mouth like he’s coaxing you into something.

A fall, maybe.

Moments stretch to minutes and keep stretching, and still all he does is hold you and touch you and kiss you. He’s not doing himself any favors; you can hear his breathing just as harsh as yours and when he breaks your kisses, his lips are just as plump and when you sink a little, you feel the rising line of his hard cock against your center.

You grip his hair. “ _Sam_ ,” you say, and there’s urgency. You’re not above begging, you just don’t want to get there.

“I know.” He reaches up and brings down the zipper of your dress. He presses a wet kiss to your collarbone, then eases you off of his lap.

Your knees are weak and that would be embarrassing if you weren’t distracted by the way he takes your hands to his mouth when he stands.

“Bedroom?” he asks through your fingers.

If his pupils weren’t blown, you might think his eyes twinkled.

“It’s about fucking time.”

He laughs as he follows you into the bedroom.

Just inside, he lays his hands on your shoulders, stopping you. He kisses the back of your neck and the knob of your spine and your shoulder as he pushes the dress down. It pools around your feet; you step out of it and when you turn, he’s working on the buttons of his shirt. They come open quickly in his hands.

“Oh, now who’s in a hurry?” All you’re thinking is  _finally_.

He grins.

You bat his hands out of the way to open the rest of the buttons of his shirt, fingers brushing his skin as you go. He combs his fingers through your hair and sighs when you pull his shirt out of his pants.

“We could have done this hours ago if you hadn’t insisted on dinner,” you mumble.

He rubs at your shoulders and your upper arms, bends to kiss the top of your head and your temple. “I wanted to take you out.”

You pause to look up at him, your fingers splayed on his belly, his skin hot and his abs tight under your hand. He looks down at you, gaze steady, and there’s a lot going on that you don’t want to dwell on. Not now. So you shake your head and you reach for his belt.

“I bet you saved your Halloween candy and made it last 'til Christmas, didn’t you?” Forced levity is still levity, and with him, it never stays forced for long.

He laughs, fingers edging under the straps of your bra and easing them off your shoulders. “Maybe.”

His cock is hard when you reach into the front of his open pants and wrap your hand around it. He gasps, his fingers on your shoulders tightening. There’s a lot about Sam that you like. His dick is one of your favorite parts, though. You push his pants and shorts down to his thighs and take him in both hands, stroking slowly. He’s thick and hot and precome shines at the tip. You are suddenly so, so glad you did away with condoms weeks ago.

His hands cup your shoulders and he pulls you up. You’re still stroking him when he kisses you and reaches back to open your bra.

With anyone else, you think, this is where the frenzy would start. It doesn’t. Sam is never frenzied. He shifts his hips back, sliding his cock out of your hands, and he pushes out of his pants. He doesn’t move so fast you can’t look, can’t admire the long lines of his legs and the deep V of his hips. But he does peel your bra off and push your panties down, and when you’re as naked as he is, he pulls you into his arms and he kisses you again.

Your fingers rest on his shoulders, briefly, before gliding up his neck and into his hair. You pull him closer, pull him deeper into a wet hot kiss that sears your lungs and leaves your nerves singing. He slides his hands up and down your back, his fingertips along the length of your spine and his palms on your ribs, before he shuffles you back toward the bed.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he murmurs.

That low desperate sound is all you.  _Finally!_  "You don’t have to.“

He lowers you until you’re on your back beneath him and he’s holding himself up on one arm. He slides a hand between your bodies. He has too many callouses, rough and warm, for a paper-pusher; that strikes you again, as his fingers slide over your belly and lower, lower. He cups you, the flats of his fingers slipped between your folds and his fingertips brushed over your clit. You’re so wet. So, so wet and ready. You need him, need the weight of him over you and his cock inside you. Still, he holds back. He eases just one finger inside you, and only to the first knuckle. He grinds his broad hot palm against your clitoris. You cling to his shoulders and kiss his mouth, his neck, his collarbone, your hips working. You ride his hand and he brings you once to shuddering climax.

You pant his name against his lips.

Sam shifts his weight between your legs, slides an arm around you, and flips you both until you’re on top. He’s flat on his back, his hands gripping your hips to steady you, to guide you. Eyes locked to his, you settle slowly onto the length of him.

You groan.

He flashes a smile, glassy eyes bright. He runs his hands from your hips up, up, strokes of his fingers like the brush of feathers. Your hands spasm against his chest, fingers dug into hard muscle. He skims his hands around your arms until he can cup your breasts, until he can push them together and roll your nipples between his rough fingertips. He’s still smiling but he’s short of breath when he tells you to just take your time.

"I like to watch you.”

You laugh, breathless and flattered, and when you do muscles inside you clench tight around him. The feel of it kills your laughter in a moan. An experimental rock of your hips catches your clitoris against his pubic bone and the sharp sudden pleasure makes you bite your lip. He looks at you, and his gaze is as hot and tangible as any touch on your breasts and lower, where your bodies are joined.  _Slow down. Take your time._  You take him at his word. He hasn’t deliberately lied to you yet and you’re greedy, spoiled by him. You’re wound up and need more and you’re going to take it.

So you pick up a selfish rhythm. Between the pressure inside and the friction against your clit, it doesn’t take long at all. Longer than you want it to take but nowhere near as long as he insists it can. Your fingers curl, your nails biting into his chest, and when you’re shaking, fucking him through your own orgasm, he covers your hands with his. You link your fingers and shift forward, grinding down hard against him as you press his hands into the pillows to either side of his head. He arches his neck, coming up, and he kisses you. You whimper into the slow deep kiss that steals your breath, whimper because he shifts his hips. His cock glides out of you in a long stroke. You break the kiss, gasping. Then you’re riding him, knees braced in the bed at his hips, your thighs working. The slide of him out, the push of him in–you try to keep your eyes open, but there’s no use, you can’t see anything through the tiny vibrant explosions of light in front of you. You shift your hips on each downstroke until you find the angle that makes him groan.

“There?”

His laugh is low and dark and the jerky bunch of his muscles seats him deeper inside you. “Right there,” he agrees.

He frees his hands from yours to wrap his arms around you. As always, it’s easy to fall in together, to find the rhythm that makes him groan and sigh and whimper. When he comes, his hard hands on your back hold you in place and his hips power up and he moans, a soft sound you rarely hear any other time. You clench tight around him, moving a hand to the back of his head. He presses his face to the curve of your neck, his breath harsh, his mouth wet.

Together, you hold for long moments, until he stops shuddering, until you catch your breath. He sinks back. You follow, draping yourself over him. You close your eyes and breathe deeply. You lay your head on his shoulder, nose brushing the side of his neck. His skin is still so hot. There’s the clean scent of his sweat, now, in addition to the aftershave. You love the way he smells. It’s the reason you change your sheets before he comes over and don’t change them for a week afterward. It makes you sigh. His hands slide up and down your back and over your ass. He softens, moment by moment, but you’re feeling the beat of his heart beneath you.

When he pushes his fingers through your hair, you stretch and wriggle until you can fold your arms over his chest and rest your chin on your forearms. You look up at him, admiring the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, and the delicious curve of his lips.

His smile might be your second favorite thing about him. Still, you can’t let him get away with not opening his eyes. “You’re not falling asleep already, are you?”

He drops a hand back to your ass and squeezes. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

You laugh at him. He doesn’t need fifteen minutes. Ten, maybe, and you’d ask if he takes something before he comes to see you, but you don’t want to know. Still, you roll your eyes as you move off of him and off the bed. “Fifteen minutes is pretty optimistic of you, but I can be patient.” You grab your short robe from the back of your bedroom door and shrug into it. “Dibs on the bathroom.”

Sam only smiles, sinking deeper into the bed, spreading his arms and taking up as much of the bed he wants while you’re gone. “Ladies first, of course.”


End file.
